


Of Fools and Madmen

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual!Sherlock, Implied Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John adds a few more pieces to the puzzle that makes up DI Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fools and Madmen

**Author's Note:**

> De-anon from [this prompt from the Rare Pairs Fest](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=13870#t13870), which asked for asexual!Lestrade.

_Where are you?_

 _Hospital. -SH_

 _What did you do to yourself now?_

 _Not me. Lestrade was shot. -SH_

 _Fuck. Is he all right?_

 _He was shot. -SH_

 _Fair point. I mean, is he going to recover?_

 _Sherlock?_

\----

“How is he?” were the first words out of John’s mouth when he returned from the surgery that evening to find Sherlock in the kitchen, working. The detective had been gone when he’d first woken up that morning, and had stopped answering his phone in the early afternoon.

Sherlock started at the noise and turned around abruptly, and John felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. He had never managed before to catch Sherlock off-guard.

“Fine,” his flatmate said, quickly recovering, and turned back to his microscope.

“What happened?”

“I wasn’t there,” Sherlock said, and John noticed that one of his hands curled into a fist even though his voice was steady. “But I’m told he interrupted an armed robbery.”

John let out a low whistle. “And what was the damage?”

“Three bullets - two to his abdomen and one to his chest. He had to be resuscitated at the scene, and again at the hospital.” Sherlock started rubbing his wrist absently - an unconscious tic John had noticed, and which appeared to occur only when the detective was particularly agitated.

“You were there all afternoon.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Well, I just thought...” John trailed off, and Sherlock raised curious eyes to his.

“Yes?”

“Thought there might be a reason for you staying so long. And you weren’t answering your phone. I just assumed he wasn’t doing too well.” John folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “Had me worried.”

“Your assumptions, as usual, are erroneous. He is fine. All things considered.”

John knew he should probably leave it at that; Sherlock likely had been gathering information, interrogating Lestrade about the man who shot him. He always preferred to get to victims as quickly as he could, because memories faded and warped with each passing second after a traumatic event.

But that didn’t add up, because robberies weren’t in Sherlock’s area of interest.

And he _had_ always wondered about the nature of the dynamic between Sherlock and Lestrade.

“Must mean a lot to you, then, for you to have stayed so long,” he murmured absently.

“Really, John, I have no interest in investigating a robbery. Not worth my time,” Sherlock said with a snort. “It’s trivial, at best.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Sherlock straightened finally and looked at him. It was a scrutinizing gaze, the kind that picked him apart and built him back up again every day. “Surely you’ve noticed Lestrade’s ring.”

“I...s’pose I have, yeah,” John said, confused at the abrupt change of topic.

“And what conclusions did you draw from it?”

“That...he was divorced. Or widowed.”

“Why not married?”

“Because...” John trailed off, thinking. He’d never honestly considered that the DI was married. Why was that? “I guess because he spends so much time at the Yard or here working on cases with you. The only free time he has he uses up at pub night. Not much time for a normal life.”

“And marriage is part of normal life?”

“Er...well, yeah, I guess so.”

“You’re full of convictions tonight, aren’t you, John?” Sherlock said, amused. “Your deductions would be correct - provided, of course, that Lestrade was married to someone interested in the banalities of social convention. Someone who would want to live with him, have a family and...pets and fences and whatever else it is _normal_ people have in their real lives. That’s a lot to assume about a hypothetical spouse, though, wouldn’t you say? That’s also a lot to assume about Lestrade, come to think of it.”

“What - so, you’re saying that he _is_ married? To someone he doesn’t see?”

“I’m simply saying that your deductive skills could use some work. Good night, John.”

And he was dismissed.

\----

The subject came up again the next morning, however, when John came down from his room to find Sherlock in the midst of tugging on his coat, about to step out.

“Going somewhere?”

“The hospital,” Sherlock said, in a tone that indicated that it should have been obvious.

“Okay, hold on,” John said, finally giving in to the confusion. “You’re off to visit Lestrade, yeah? Off to visit a man who’s only a colleague to you for the second time in two days? Come off it. What’s really going on?”

“I thought that I made that obvious last night, John.”

“What, that whole cryptic speech about Lestrade being married to someone unconventional? Yeah, thanks, that told me _a lot.”_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John felt the breath leave his chest as realization dawned.

“What - _you’re_ the one he’s married to?”

“Good deduction, John. Masterful work,” Sherlock said as he tugged on a pair of gloves.

“No, hang on! You two are married and never spend the night together? Hell, you hardly spend _any_ time together when it’s not about the work.”

“That is blatantly untrue, John. You are not aware of my every movement; don’t pretend that you are. You _assume_ I never leave the flat when you aren’t home, or that I leave only to conduct investigations for a case. And it’s not _never_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “We _rarely_ spend the night in the same bed, but it does happen from time to time.”

“Why?”

“Because we aren’t interested in prolonged forms of human contact.”

“What, so, you have a quick shag and go your separate ways?” John asked, and then backtracked quickly. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just a bit unusual.”

“I know there’s nothing wrong with that,” Sherlock said, amused. “But, again, you’re making assumptions. You think that because we’re married, we have sex.”

“Er...”

“We don’t.”

“Yeah, getting that. All right, I’ll bite,” John said, spinning theories already. A marriage of convenience, perhaps? “Why?”

“Because we aren’t interested in it.”

“What - neither of you?”

“Problem?” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height now, and John realized that he was suddenly on the defensive. He backpedaled, though he was still burning with questions and unsure where to even begin.

“No, no, it’s just - you know - guess it’s lucky you found one another, yeah?”

Sherlock snorted and his lips disappeared into a thin line. “I should make it clear, John, that my feelings for Lestrade are sincere. This is not a _sham marriage_ , though how anyone could think that continuously baffles me. We had nothing to gain by marrying, apart from it being something that we wanted to do. There is more to this relationship than a mutual lack of sexual interest.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” John asked, curious. He had been living with Sherlock for just over a year now, and not once had he revealed anything about his personal life beyond the fact that he did not get on with his brother.

“Because I am aware of the convenient nature of the situation. We are both uninterested in sex, so of course we must belong together. I simply wish for you to know that that’s not the reason why we are together.”

“I wasn’t doubting the validity of your relationship,” John said quickly, though as he ran through his words he realized how that might have come out. “I mean - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. The whole situation’s a bit unusual, yeah, but I never meant to question your...your feelings or anything.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Sherlock reached for the scarf he had flung over the back of a chair and tied it quickly around his neck. “You are the first not to.”

“Honestly?” John said, surprised. “But...how can people not see it? You two bicker like an old married couple - sorry - and you’ve known each other for years. You’re obviously quite comfortable around him, more comfortable than I’ve seen you around anyone else...”

He trailed off.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have questions or anything. But...I guess whatever it is you do - or don’t do, I suppose - in private doesn’t really matter. There are more important things.”

Sherlock’s look transformed from mildly defensive to amused again. “I am surprised to hear such an assessment from you, John. You, whose sexual conquests make you the envy of all the Yarders.”

John flushed amid his grin, but didn’t let Sherlock throw him off his track. “You’re meant for each other, you know that? I mean - not because you’re not interested in sex. Because...well, you’re good together. From what I’ve seen. If it helps at all.”

Sherlock blinked at him, looking momentarily as though he didn’t know quite what to say.

“Thank you, John,” he said finally. “That’s...kind.”

John grinned and clapped him on the shoulder; Sherlock scowled, but there wasn’t any heat to his look.

“Go on; get to the hospital. I have to stop at the clinic to fill out some paperwork, and then I’ll be right behind to say hi.”

\----

Sherlock spent the first fifteen minutes of his visit sitting in a chair by Lestrade’s bed, not touching him, but looking and noting the changes in his appearance. Lestrade did not appear much different from when Sherlock had visited the previous day, but he had altered considerably since the beginning of the week. He was unshaven, and two days’ worth of stubble peppered his jaw. His skin was not unlike the color of the faded walls in Sherlock’s room at Baker Street, which had been white one day long before he’d moved in but had dulled to an almost ash with age.

Sherlock’s mobile beeped, and he dug it out of his pocket to find that he had gotten a text from John.

 _Here. Going for some coffee, then to waiting room. Let me know when he’s ready for visitors._

Sherlock sent him an acknowledgment and then returned to the study of Lestrade’s face.

Lestrade appeared to have aged the same amount in two days that most people did in two years, and Sherlock found that this observation caused something to clench uncomfortably around his heart. He was used to thinking of Lestrade as an irritation; as a necessity; as a constant; as a good man.

But he had never before thought of Lestrade as frail; as destructible. Clearly, that was a gross oversight, and Sherlock couldn’t say how his brain had managed to overlook such important information.

Sherlock half-rose from the chair, moved by sentiment he had never known he possessed before Lestrade stepped into his life, and leaned over the man long enough to brush a quick kiss against his dry and cracked lips.

He sat down in the chair again, and ended up three years in the past.

\----

The first time it happened, they were in Lestrade’s office. They had been standing bent over Lestrade’s desk, Sherlock on one side and Lestrade on the other, and in a moment of excitement Sherlock had exclaimed, “Do you see? It must have been the aunt!” and snapped his head up at the same time that Lestrade did.

Their heads were approximately three centimeters closer to one another than was considered socially acceptable, Sherlock noted. He also noted that he should pull away, but was finding it impossible to do so. And though he defied what normal people considered _impossible_ on a regular basis, he found that this was one thing he had no desire to disprove.

Lestrade closed the gap, brushed his lips across Sherlock’s in a careful kiss, and then pulled back to say, “So where’s your evidence?”

They went back to work on the case, and neither breathed a word about the kiss.

Sherlock couldn’t recall the second time it happened, only that it had, so it must not have been notable enough to keep on his hard drive. But the third time was in the doorway to Lestrade’s office, as Sherlock was about to take his leave after wrapping up a particularly taxing case. He was lingering, he knew, though he couldn’t precisely say _why_ , and that was infuriating. He had experiments to tend to back at his flat, and a particularly interesting cold case he had nicked when Lestrade had gone to find Donovan for something.

Lestrade leaned in to kiss him just as Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling, digging through the information on his hard drive to try to figure out what it was that was keeping him from leaving.

 _Ah_ , he found himself thinking as his lips parted under Lestrade’s firm ones and broad arms went about his waist. He grabbed two fistfuls of Lestrade’s jacket, unable to help himself even as his stomach was sinking. Lestrade would pull back, and murmur, “Back to mine, then?” and Sherlock would have to risk jeopardizing the arrangement he had with a man who kept him from being bored. He weighed his options - he _was_ good at faking interest (as he had learned at Uni) and he found it wasn’t entirely an unpleasant idea, the thought of providing Lestrade with sexual release. He wondered why that was, and could conclude only that he was now fond of the man, and thus his... _happiness_ had become a vested interest of Sherlock’s.

But he couldn’t muster any interest beyond that. He simply didn’t want to. He did so hate that question though, because of the expectations attached to it - the assumptions that the answer was already _yes_ , simply because he actually rather enjoyed kissing. And so he decided to take a little of that power out of Lestrade’s hands, and when the DI finally broke the kiss Sherlock said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go back to your place.”

Lestrade gave him what he had come to recognize as a puzzled look. His arms were still around Sherlock’s waist but they were now leaning away from one another, Sherlock’s hands braced on Lestrade’s chest.

“No, actually,” Lestrade said, amused. “I wasn’t going to ask that. Well, yes, _I_ am wanting to go back to my own place. I wasn’t going to ask you along.”

Sherlock frowned. This wasn’t how it usually went. And while he appreciated the surprise, he couldn’t say he felt the same for the resulting confusion.

“Why?”

Lestrade withdrew his arms and laughed - an entirely pleasant sound, and one that Sherlock saved to his hard drive instantly.

 _“Oh, Sherlock…”_

\----

“Sherlock…”

Lestrade was looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, Sherlock saw as he was broken out of his reverie. His lips were parted as well, Sherlock’s name poised on them for the third time.

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, leaning in so that Lestrade could see him properly. “I’m back. It’s morning now.”

Lestrade lifted his hand half off the bed in an attempt at a wave. Sherlock took it in both of his own, mirroring the gesture Lestrade had performed on him countless times over the years. He hoped it brought the same comfort to Lestrade that it had brought to him each time.

“John’s here,” Sherlock said. “He came to visit. Would you like to see him?”

“Inna minute,” Lestrade slurred. He was fighting valiantly to keep his eyes open for more than a moment at a time. “Wantto see youfirst.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Sherlock pointed out patiently.

“Doesn’tcount,” Lestrade murmured.

“Oh?”

“Was too hypedup on medicine t’remember,” Lestrade forced out past numb lips and leaden tongue. “Stay amoment. Please.”

Sherlock hesitated briefly. He wasn’t sure what to say, now that all of his questions and usual comments (what he had been led to believe was proper ‘small talk’) had been used up. He didn’t know what else was expected of him. And now the silence had dragged on for more moments than was socially acceptable, and even under the blanket of medicine Lestrade was sure to have noticed.

But then Sherlock thought back to all of the times Lestrade had visited him in hospital - which thankfully had not been deleted from his hard drive (though he’d tried, at the beginning, but they’d refused to be erased, and now he found he was glad of it) - and recalled the small gestures that Lestrade had performed when their roles had been reversed.

There had been the time, after the stabbing, when Lestrade had sat next to the bed with his hand on Sherlock’s knee for approximately three and a half hours. It had been...pleasant, Sherlock realized. And there had been the time after his concussion when Lestrade had held his hand - ah, but Sherlock was doing that already. So that was no help.

And then there had been the time Sherlock had been laid up with a bout of pneumonia, so terrible that breathing was difficult and he had coughed wetly for hours, forcing his already-pained chest to contract and heave. Lestrade had sat on the edge of his hospital bed, then, a hand on his chest to assure him of his presence and leaning close so that Sherlock couldn’t ever lose track of him with his eyes.

Sherlock got up out of the chair and perched on the mattress near Lestrade’s hips, never letting go of his hand. Lestrade’s gaze followed him, the brown eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and medication, and when Sherlock was settled he gave a weak smile.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, and cursed at how hesitant it sounded.

“Better,” Lestrade rasped. “Loveyou, y’know.”

“I do.”

“Good.” Lestrade squeezed his fingers. “Tha’s good.”

“You should sleep. You are little good to me like this.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade murmured. “Know how t’makea man feelgood ‘bout himself.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that, so he leaned down and brushed his lips quickly over Lestrade’s before straightening again.

“What was ‘at for?”

 _“Do I need a reason?”_

\----

“Do I need a reason?” Lestrade asked in response to Sherlock’s questioning eyes. He was already moving away, having paused on the way into his office only long enough to press his lips briefly to Sherlock’s temple, and took a seat at his desk. Sherlock remained standing, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

“I have found,” Sherlock said, “that generally there _is_ a reason when person kisses another. What is yours?”

“I like kissing you,” Lestrade said. “And you don’t seem to mind it either.”

“Yes, I realize that,” Sherlock said impatiently. “But usually kissing leads to something more. What is it you’re after?”

Lestrade laughed - _laughed!_ The man would never cease confusing him, it would seem.

Or surprising him.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he said. “Surely someone like you has already figured out that I’m not particularly interested in sexual activities. Or do you need it said aloud?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, sinking into a chair in front of his desk. Their dynamic had changed little since that first kiss some weeks ago, apart from the fact that Lestrade tended to show slight moments of affection when they were working on cases alone - usually nothing more than a touch at his elbow or a brush of lips against his cheek. It was wholly different from anything else he had ever experienced, because Lestrade hadn’t seemed keen on allowing things to progress further. And Sherlock knew from a glance at Lestrade’s hand and his shoes that he was neither divorced, married, or seeing anyone. “It hadn’t escaped my attention.”

“Good.”

“And I realize that you have apparently sought me out because you recognized that I have no interest in such activities either.”

“Nope,” Lestrade said, almost cheerful. “I had no clue.”

“Then why -”

“Why seek you out?” Lestrade shrugged. “Same reason I would do it for anyone. I’m _interested._ You idiot,” he added, smiling, and Sherlock frowned at the repetition of his oft-used phrase.

“You took a chance.”

“Yes.”

“A foolish one.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“About what I’m after?” Lestrade leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “No more than what I’ve already shown you. Whatever you’re comfortable with, really. And for as long as until you become bored with me.”

“That’s...” Sherlock considered for a moment, “...acceptable.”

But he couldn’t help the seed of doubt that planted itself in his mind, whispering that Lestrade was telling him only something that he desired to hear. Sherlock searched Lestrade’s face, and could not find any indication that the man was lying to him. Nonetheless, the odds that he had stumbled upon someone of a similar inclination, and one as intriguing as Lestrade was proving to be…well, Sherlock would have to do the proper calculations later, but suffice it to say it was highly unlikely.

“Good to know,” Lestrade said, looking somewhat relieved. But then his expression melted into one of concern and his eyes roved over Sherlock’s face. _“Are you all right?”_

\----

“Areyou all right?” Lestrade murmured, forcing Sherlock from his thoughts once again.

“Of course.”

“Where d’youkeep goin’?”

“Nowhere.”

“Liar,” Lestrade whispered fondly. “But s’okay. You don’ have to tellme.”

Sherlock considered him for a moment, and said, “I’m not bored with you.”

“Good t’know,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock detected a faint lilt to his voice. Amusement, perhaps?

“I don’t think I could ever become bored with you,” Sherlock felt compelled to add. “Never.”

Lestrade squeezed his hand by way of reply.

“Thanks, love,” he muttered. “Gonna sleepnow.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, nodding briskly. “I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Lestrade let out a slow breath that might have been thanks, and was asleep before he’d finished the word.

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock murmured, even though Lestrade couldn’t hear him. _“Idiot.”_

\----

“Idiot.”

Lestrade turned on his heel. “What did you call me?”

“You heard me very well.”

Lestrade huffed a breath through his nose. “Tell me, is that an upgrade from _fool?”_

Sherlock scowled, deciding not to dignify that response with an answer. “You can _clearly_ see that it was the brother-in-law, as opposed to the uncle.”

“I can?” Lestrade said, raising his eyebrow, and Sherlock hazarded a guess that the gesture was sarcastic. “Do tell how that’s possible.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock snapped. “Look at his fingernails!”

Lestrade turned to look at the crime scene photographs they had pinned to Sherlock’s walls. He peered at them for some moments, and then said, “Nope. Not seeing it.”

Sherlock ran both hands through his hair in frustration. He found he was having a difficult time concentrating, and this infuriated him to no end. He had been fine up until the moment Lestrade texted him - _bringing you some files_ \- and his hard drive had been sputtering ever since. It was difficult to access the things that were important, really useful, for this case. Instead he found himself cataloguing Lestrade - _bit of mustard on his tie, left side, means he was eating with his left hand, probably because he was writing with his right; filling out paperwork, then, over his lunch break_. Or, _smudge of ink on right side of his face, near his temple, means he reached up for a specific purpose. What do people wear that goes across the temple? Glasses. He owns glasses that no one’s told about, perhaps only for reading, but more likely he’s embarrassed by them and doesn’t use them often._

Lestrade would look pleasing in glasses, Sherlock decided - and then promptly cursed himself.

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Lestrade rounded on him and demanded, “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock lied, rubbing his forehead. Lestrade snorted.

“Nice try. You’ve been acting odd all day.” He folded his arms. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing worth your concern,” Sherlock muttered. Lestrade’s brows drew together.

“It involves you,” he said quietly. “That absolutely makes it my concern.”

“I fail to see how. Your case will get solved, one way or another.”

“The case isn’t what I’m worried about,” Lestrade said pointedly.

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, and finally muttered, “You occupy too much of my hard drive. I can’t concentrate.”

“I _what?”_

“You are in here,” Sherlock said stiffly, tapping the side of his head. “All the time. It makes it very difficult to get anything else accomplished.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said. “And...all right. So...what do you propose we do about it?”

“I’m unsure,” Sherlock admitted.

“Do you want to continue as we have been?” Lestrade put his hands on his hips, considering Sherlock. “Or...perhaps that’s what has been keeping you preoccupied?”

“It has,” Sherlock said, and then added, “Not that I regret being occupied as such. I find that I am...more preoccupied with the _nature_ of what this is than the fact that it exists.”

He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain himself further, for he wasn’t sure that he actually _could._

“I don’t like sex,” he blurted finally, when Lestrade’s gaze became too much for him to bear. _God damn the man._

Lestrade’s mouth quirked. “Yes, I know. We’ve been over this.”

“I don’t want it. I _won’t_ want it. I cannot be changed, nor am I waiting for the ‘right person.’ All that interests me is the work.” Sherlock tapped a long finger against his temple. “The mind is the most important thing to me. Little else matters.”

Lestrade’s expression hadn’t changed, and Sherlock could not figure out why.

“I didn’t tell you all of that in my office last month because I thought it was what you wanted to hear,” he said carefully, almost gently. “I said it because it was true. This is who I am, and it’s been twenty years since I wished I could change it. Doesn’t mean it’s gotten any easier, but I’ve made my peace with it. I don’t need you doubting me, in addition to everyone else who already does.”

The rebuke was so subtle that Sherlock almost missed it. And then - he felt the bite of regret deep in his stomach.

 _Interesting._

“I...did not intend to imply I thought you were confused about your sexuality,” he said. “I thought, perhaps...you doubted mine.”

“Never,” Lestrade said seriously. “I’m not going to turn around on you and suddenly want to sleep with you; I don’t expect you to change with time.” He shrugged. “We are who we are. I don’t expect anything more than that. I don’t _want_ anything more than that. Will you trust me?”

Sherlock gave a slow nod of the head. Yes, he could trust this man. Lestrade had never given Sherlock reason to doubt him before, even though he was slightly slow on the uptake and not the brightest man Sherlock had ever met.

But he was certainly one of the more interesting, and Sherlock found he couldn’t often predict Lestrade. And Sherlock always appreciated those who could surprise him.

Lestrade’s face broke into a slow smile at Sherlock’s nod.

 _“Oh, I could kiss you.”_

\----

“Oh, I could kiss you,” John murmured, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee Sherlock was offering him. He unfurled himself from the waiting room chair and sighed, breathing in the fumes from the cup. “Is he sleeping?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I apologize for not coming for you sooner. He was...weaker than I had been expecting.”

John waved off his concern. “It’s fine. Patient comes first. How’s he doing?”

“Better than yesterday,” Sherlock admitted. “He was...he was in a good deal of pain, and there was little that could be done. And...prior to that, he was in surgery, and I was unaware of his status.”

“You could have called me to come out and wait with you,” John said gently. Sherlock frowned.

“You were at work.”

“Never stopped you before,” John pointed out. “And you know very well I’d’ve left for you; don’t even try to pull that on me.”

He took a gulp of coffee, and added, “Are you staying?”

“There is no logical reason to,” Sherlock admitted. “He likely will not wake for a few hours yet.”

“Yet, you feel compelled to stay anyway,” John said, grinning.

Sherlock’s lip curled at the thought, but he nodded and softly said, “Yes, I do.”

“I don’t have to be at the surgery until late tomorrow morning. D’you want me to stay now?”

“Are you offering?” Sherlock asked, and John looked amused.

 _“Are you asking?”_

\----

“Are you asking?”

A slow smile broke across Lestrade’s face. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Why?”

Lestrade snorted and pushed himself up off the sofa, walking over to the liquor cabinet and refilling his glass. “Because I’m a fool in love with a madman and...I want this. I want you.”

“Marriage isn’t a guarantee.”

“Nothing’s a guarantee.” Lestrade returned to the sofa, sinking into his well-worn spot. Next to him, Sherlock shifted, crossing his ankle over his knee. “I’m still asking. Are you considering?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t need to consider.”

“Oh?” The crease was back, the one that appeared between Lestrade’s eyes when he was faintly worried about something. Sherlock found it fascinating.

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Well...um, that was fast. Mind letting me know your answer?”

“I already did.”

“You -” Lestrade broke off, and then his face brightened as realization dawned. “Oh! So...yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeated, amused at his partner’s flustering. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

\----

“The ring’s not because you’re married, though,” John noted later, as they sat on opposite sides of Lestrade’s hospital bed. The older man was still asleep, but his vitals were encouraging.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his flatmate.

“No?”

“No,” John said. “You used that simply as a way to try to point me in the right direction. He wears the ring for another reason - maybe to prevent people from asking him questions at work.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t have one,” John said. “And he’s not the type of man to get married and not give his partner a ring in return, even if you don’t wear it. Sentimentality and all. I can see you not wearing it in public, but you don’t wear it in private either. And you don’t ever act like you miss the weight of it - you never rub your bare finger or anything like that. So you aren’t accustomed to ever having anything on that finger.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Lucky guess.”

“Sometimes it’s not what you see - it’s what you _don’t_ see,” John said smugly. There was a pause before he added, “All right, yeah, I did guess. But you have to admit, it was a good one.”

“He’s had the ring since before we knew one another,” Sherlock clarified. “To, as you so aptly observed, avoid questions.”

John watched as his gaze strayed to the tan line on Lestrade’s left finger; they’d removed the ring when he first came into hospital, and no one had put it back on. Sherlock ran a pale finger over the patch of white skin left behind by the band.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s lax face.

“Thanks for telling me. About, you know, him. You. It’s...good.” John waved a hand vaguely. “It’s - I’m glad you told me.”

Sherlock glanced at him over Lestrade’s head, and a cautious smile tugged at his lips.

“As am I, John.”


End file.
